by A. Constanza
“Now, I’m left to offer piano classes because I have the need to teach, yet no one in this town is interested. I’ve only taught one person who loved it with true passion but got swept away into business many years ago.”
We remained silent, and I noticed that he was truly grieving for the loss of that student.
“Teach me,” I said without thinking; the words just slipped out of my mouth. “I may not turn out to be a famous composer, but the art would be appreciated.” A part of me doubted myself because I wouldn’t be able to pick up scales easily as someone younger or well-practiced. I had to mentally convince myself that this was a part of self-discovery. To try, to learn, to fail, to get back up again.
“I believe you,” he said. “We start tomorrow.”
FOUR
“Lorenzo”
“I believe this is it,” Marcelo announced, stepping out of the car and putting his sunglasses on. “Salem’s Café,” he said, simply.
I eyed the exterior of the bakery and stared at Marcelo. “You could hire any bakery in the world to make your wedding cake—you do know, that right?” It wasn’t even a bakery; it was a café.
“It’s a cake,” he said, bored. “Also, I’m doing my due diligence by hiring local businesses.”
“Right,” I said, giving the bakery one more stare.
I knew that it had nothing to do with support or charity—he was sabotaging—whether intentionally or unintentionally. Marcelo had a habit of killing all of his relationships in order to protect himself from heartbreak. This was his way of starting off the marriage on a bad foot. Though, I couldn’t judge him too harshly since I’d also hurt someone to protect myself.
“I’m also responsible for all the food decisions, so Camilla will have to deal with it,” he assured me, or perhaps himself.
Camilla was nothing like Marcelo, and had it not been for their ulterior motives, then they wouldn’t have entertained each other. Camilla was the daughter of Marcelo’s culinary role model, Massimo Russo. I didn’t exactly know what Camilla’s motives were, but it was clear that when she looked at Marcelo, she certainly had one.
We entered the small bakery, and it was more of a botanical café, which I didn’t mind. It had the perfect mix of countryside and American modern. The walls were painted with a rough coat of white that created more texture to the color. Wooden shelves held plants, printed-out poems, paintings, and knickknacks. There were wooden tables with chairs that were dyed white halfway through.
“Alright, be safe,” someone hollered into the backroom.
A girl with raven-colored hair, that slightly grazed her shoulders, appeared from the curtains and flashed a welcoming smile. It was clear that she was American from the way she spoke and the way she dressed. She had a plain black T-shirt paired with light blue shorts and other black accessories. It had the minimal look that I would see when I traveled back to the States to visit my mom in New York.
“Ciao ciao! Benvenuto al caffè di Salem!”
“Are you Salem?” Marcelo asked in English. Marcelo had been on a mission to speak as much English as he could. The man practically knew the language, but it was his barely noticeable accent that convinced him that he wasn’t fluent. Unlike me, I had an American mother and Italian father, and I bounced from using both English and Italian. I didn’t have too much of an accent when speaking English. I only used to exaggerate it when I wanted to feel like somebody else.
“Yes, sir,” she replied, happily.
“I’m having a wedding, and I’m looking for a local bakery-café to make it for me.”
“I’d be happy to do that for you! When is the wedding?”
“In a month and a half.”
“For how many people?”
“About four hundred,” he said casually. “We don’t have the location set so don’t worry about transportation—just the cake.”
Salem’s face dropped in surprise. “Ookaay,” she whispered.
“And I’d like a small cake for the rehearsal dinner party. That’ll be in a month and for about one hundred people.”
Salem frantically started to jot down the information on a small notepad. She huffed in confusion and scratched the top of her head with the back of the pen. “That’s definitely doable, but the large order on such a short notice will be a pretty penny.” She was casual and direct; Marcelo probably appreciated her forwardness.
Marcelo reached in for his wallet from his blazer and pulled out a gold credit card. “I’m ready when you are,” he said. He loved to show off his favorite card.
I rolled my eyes and turned on my heels to look at the figurines on the shelves by the large window. There were cherubs, angelic women, wedding toppers, plates, cups, and an odd one of a fox with a top hat playing the piano with a young woman sitting on the shared bench. I picked it up to take a closer look at it. Whoever made it took their time to make the piece; the piano seemed to have all its details.
There was a name handwritten on the back which read E. SALVADOR. So, Salem didn’t make them.
“Everyone loves that one,” Salem said from the counter.
“That’s pretty funny.” Marcelo chuckled.
Was it funny? At first glance, it seemed lighthearted, but I wondered if there was a specific story behind it. It was too out of place with the other figurines to just have a comical purpose. And why did I feel personally attacked by it?
“Yeah,” I said, placing it back.
“Are we all done here?” Marcelo asked.
“Yes, sir,” she answered.
“Sounds good,” he said with a mischievous smirk. Oh God, he was trying to hit on her, and she wasn’t necessarily buying it, or if she was, she did a good job of containing herself.
“Arrivederci,” I said, placing my hand up to bid farewell.
“She was hot,” Marcelo commented the second we stepped outside. “Makes me wish I wasn’t getting married.”
“Oh, what the hell,” I snarled as I traced the long scratch that resided on the side of my Mercedes Benz. It was another thing to add onto the growing list of events that had irritated me this week.
“No one drives a car to Vecchio,” Marcelo said. “Let alone a luxury car—maybe a fiat but not a Mercedes.”
“You weren’t saying anything when I drove you here for your cake.”
Marcelo shrugged and slipped into the passenger seat. The man, who wished he wasn’t going to get married, had good luck this whole week, but I’m the one who ended up getting screwed. The scratch wouldn’t have bothered me any other week, but this week had been exhausting. Everything felt off. There was this ambivalent force around me that weighed heavily on me.
“Go man,” Marcelo hollered, watching me grip my steering wheel and look out.
“I’ll be back,” I said, unbuckling myself and going back to the bakery-café.
“Welcome back!” Salem greeted.
I made a beeline straight to the piano/fox figurine and took it to the counter. “I’d like to buy this,” I said, pulling out my card.
“That’ll be a hundred euros,” she said, grabbing it.
I nodded and allowed her to wrap the figurine in tissue paper and place it in a small gift bag. “Enjoy,” she said, handing me the bag.
I headed back to my car and sat in the driver’s seat, placing the bag in the backseat. I expected Marcelo to ask about my purchase and throw judgment, but he had eyes fixated on the screen as his fingers typed rapidly.
“Fuck, she’s coming two days early,” Marcelo groaned. “She’ll be here at 8 p.m.”
“Camilla?” I asked, starting up the car.
“She doesn’t trust my decision-making,” he grumbled, stuffing his phone back into his pockets.
There wasn’t much advice I could give him considering that most of my encounters with women had failed miserably. Marriage wasn’t likely for me, and Marcelo was doing an outstanding job at solidifying it.
“Let’s go to the bar,” Marcelo
suggested. “I’d rather be hammered when she comes, so I couldn’t care less about her rants.” He had about five hours to drink his sorrows; it was doable.
“Very well,” I said, taking us back to Castel Nuovo. “I could use a drink.”
FIVE
Estella
My lesson with Emile was a splendid experience, and the high that came from learning from a master didn’t wear off until I was a minute away from Salem’s café. When I left my work shift, I had accidentally scratched a Mercedes Benz when I turned the corner. I was too excited for the lesson and wasn’t paying attention when I made a sharp turn. Granted, the luxury car shouldn’t have parked on the side of the building, but what did rich people care?
To my luck, the car was no longer there. I parked my scooter by the back door and opened the door to enter. Salem stood by the front counter, flicking through photos on her phone. Through our large window, I could see her hunched over. Anybody could look into the kitchen if they wanted to do so.
I popped out from the black curtain and stood next to her. “No business today?”
Salem jumped up and clapped. “Actually, we had a lot of business today.”
“Like what?” I asked, putting my apron back on.
“Fifteen thousand worth of business.”
“What?” I squealed.
“These two hot guys came in, and one of them is getting married. He wants two cakes, one for the wedding consisting of four hundred people and another smaller cake. We hit the jackpot!”
For a small business that was an astronomical amount of money especially with having recently been opened.
“That’s going to be a lot of work, Salem. You’ve made cakes for a hundred people, but four-hundred?”
She shrugged, not too worried. “It’s doable, and he wants it relatively simple. Nonna will be on it, too; she won’t disappoint.”
“Good, we’ll need all the help we can get.”
Salem walked out from the counter area and to the shelves that displayed my work. She pointed to an empty space on the shelf. “The other hot guy bought your piano-playing fox.”
“Really?” I whispered, scanning all the shelves to confirm the purchase.
“Yeah! Keep them coming!” she said, patting my shoulder and returning to her position.
I stood there in utter disbelief that one of my most significant figurines had been purchased by a complete stranger. It was a figurine I made to cope with the heartbreaking one-night stand that I had in Paris when I was nineteen. The piano player was such a gentleman, on the keys and in bed, which is why the fox wore a top hat, but he was nothing more than a fox. Mischievous, untrusting, cunning, and transformative. He made me believe that we had a genuine connection, but that was proven wrong when he left before I woke up.
I want to see you again, Estella.
The words replayed in my head like a haunting lullaby, making the little hairs on my arms rise. Those were the words he said to me after we finished making love and he kissed me tenderly. I believed him, but I blamed that on naivety. Men will say what you want to hear in order to get in between your legs. My foolish heart fell for it.
“You okay there, bud?” Salem asked, noticing that I hadn’t moved.
“Yeah,” I said, snapping myself out of my thoughts and tying my hair back.
Salem knew only a few things about that night. It was such an embarrassing and low point in my life that I didn’t want to reveal any of the small details. All she knew was that I lost my virginity to a piano player while I was abroad, nothing more—even though she did try to pry.
“I’ll be in my studio,” I said, heading through the white-colored drapes that led to my sanctuary.
It was a medium-sized storage room transformed into a ceramic art studio. It had a wooden table in the corner, where I would sit to work out details on a piece, wooden shelves on the walls to hold all my materials, a drying rack, a potter’s wheel, and a small kiln. It was the right amount of perfect to satisfy me.
Time seemed irrelevant at the moment; all I could do was sit on my barstool and look at the clay in front of me. Lorenzo was on my mind, and I desperately wanted him out of it. He had preoccupied too much of my life, emotions, and time already. As much as I wanted to get rid of him, my fingers started to play with the clay.
After a couple of hours of molding the play into what I envisioned, I realized that Lorenzo had been on my mind throughout the whole time. I created another fox figurine, and this time there was a withering peony next to him—simple and maybe cliché—but it still held a strong message to me. Romance had died for me that night.
“Why can’t I get you out of my mind?” I said, staring at the figurine.
Salem peeked her head into my studio. “Ready to go?” she asked. “Nonna said to head to her place; she made pizza.”
“Sure,” I said, taking my apron off and placing the figurine onto the shelf to dry.
There wasn’t anything food couldn’t fix.
***
People want to say that the older you get, the uglier you will be, but the ladies in front of me showed that all that talk was false. Nonna Norah and her friends radiated beauty at their age, probably at their peak, in my opinion. Their gray hairs glistened under the light, their faces tan and blushed, their laughter causing a beautiful storm, their grins as wide Lake Castel. I envied their happy and carefree attitude. Obviously, they had all gone through the tumultuous journey of life and deserved it.
“Estella, I heard that you’re taking classes with Signore Emile,” Antonella said, eyeing Nonna Norah with a flirtatious look.
“Oh stop,” Nonna Norah said, swatting her look away.
“Ah, is that Nonna’s admirer?” Salem cooed.
Antonella didn’t say anything, but her child-like eyes made it clear that something was going on between Nonna Norah and Emile.
“Ignore these two,” Nonna said and looked at me. “How are the lessons going?”
“They’re great,” I chimed. “He’s an amazing teacher. I’m learning how to read sheets.”
“Outstanding. I hope I can hear you play one day,” Nonna said.
“When I’m good,” I assured.
“I wonder if she’s learning the song that he wrote for you on your birthday,” Stefania chimed in, snickering with Antonella.
“Oh, hush, you two,” Nonna Norah said, trying to diffuse all the rumors.
All four of the women at the table bickered back and forth, making assumptions about their relationship, recalling memories and other tidbits that put a smile on my face. Nonna Norah seemed annoyed, but it was all harmless. I think she even enjoyed all the attention despite her shushing.
He played a love song once, and I wondered if it was the same song he played for Nonna Norah. Emile never mentioned her even when I told him that I worked at Salem’s café, and everyone knew she was Nonna Norah’s granddaughter.
He never told me how long ago he composed the song, just that it was about a man who desperately wanted to be in love but was afraid of the heartbreak. At the end of the song, he finally conceded to love and realized that he had nothing to fear. They were both widowers, so they had all the reasons to want to avoid love again.
The song was called “Fammi Innamorare,” translated in English as “Let Me Fall in Love.”
Everyone could relate to the song at some point in their lives, and I was in that current situation. Ever since Paris, it had been difficult for me to emotionally give myself away to a man, only because I was afraid that they were the next fox wanting to steal all the joy from me. My ex-boyfriend didn’t help with my existing issue; he actually magnified them.
Two weeks before coming to Italy, I had broken up with a boy named Cesar. We dated for about six months, and he was another mistake. For a while, he was the definition of a perfect boyfriend; even Salem gave him the seal of approval in the beginning, but then he started to demand sex, verbally abused me, and brushed my face
with his fist when it crashed into the wall. I never told anyone the extent of his abuse, but Salem and my family started picking up on my hesitation to be around him, and Cesar also started showing his true self: rude, narcissistic, unapologetic.
There were many sleepless nights, consisting of curling up in a ball and asking the highest power to change him because I didn’t feel strong enough to leave. It was the day of our six ‘monthaversary’ that I met him for dinner at a fancy restaurant, and he made a scene about my scandalous outfit. He tried to drag me out of the restaurant after he attempted to punch me and a couple of men interfered. I must’ve lost some part of my mind or felt numb enough to voice that we were done. He cried and told me that he’d change, but his eyes were still soulless.
“What’s on your mind?” Nonna Norah asked, placing her soft hand over mine.
“Oh.” I sighed, trying to come up with a lie. “I’m wondering what cheese you used on these delicious pizzas.”
“Mozzarella!” all the girls hollered in unison and erupted in laughter.
“Of course.” I nervously chuckled. Not only did I make it clear that I was lying, but that I was an idiot. as well.
“Are you feeling okay?” Nonna Norah asked.
“I’m actually exhausted,” I said. “I think I’m going to head back to the cottage.”
“Okay, it’s not a problem,” she said.
“I should be there in an hour or so,” Salem said. “After we get some answers from Nonna here.” She gave Nonna a mischievous look, and Nonna ignored her by looking in another direction.
“Buonanotte,” I said, excusing myself.
There were three cottages near the lake shore, hidden amongst tall, luscious trees. One of the cottages belonged to Nonna, the other one was a stranger’s vacation home, and the other one belonged to me and Salem. It was a small, cute house that had enough integrity to support two girls in their twenties.
The grey stones that made up the cottage almost looked black at night. I couldn’t see much of the cottage, but I envisioned the usual sight that I saw in the day. The grass around the cottage was a pale yellow color, scorched by the hot, blazing sun in the summer. Though at night, you could tell that autumn wanted to make an entrance by tousling my hair. The lake looked welcoming in the day and ominous at night as if it didn’t want to tell you what was across from you.
